


Death By A Thousand Cuts

by annabellelux



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Banter, Baz really taking the expression “you could murder me and I’d say thank you” to heart, Blood and Violence, Final Battle Scene, I woke up this morning and asked myself “can I make my fandom friends cry today?”, Kill him or kiss him?, M/M, Sexual Tension, Simon POV, Soulmate AU, let’s find out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27121372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux
Summary: It’s the World of Mages' final battle, and Simon doesn’t know what he’s fighting for anymore. He’s sick of going off on the Mage’s enemies—though, his one consolation is that he’s not a killer; Mages can only be killed by their soulmate.Out on the battlefield, he has one goal in mind: find Baz Pitch.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 73
Kudos: 375





	Death By A Thousand Cuts

**Author's Note:**

> I know I said I was going to take a break from writing Snowbaz fic this semester. I really, really tried. But this fic haunted my every waking thought for 36 hours until it was finished, and that is not my fault, that is Simon and Baz’s fault for owning my entire heart. 
> 
> Thanks for looking this over for me [@giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu) and [@xivz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/pseuds/xivz)! You are both wonderful souls; thank you for dealing with my constant need for validation!
> 
> Rated M for violence and blood  
> TWs: (attempted) murder/ implied canon-typical suicidal ideation
> 
> Also, before we start, I’m going to clarify Soulmate magic rules real quick: Only a mage’s soulmate can kill them, but this only protects a mage from other mages and humans. Mages are still susceptible to magical creatures. (So, theoretically, a goblin could kill Simon, but I couldn't.) (Not that I’d be able to even if I tried.)

**Simon**

When I first agreed to fight in the final battle, it felt like the obvious decision.

The Mage said it was my duty. 

The Mage said this would help us in our ultimate war against the Humdrum. 

The Mage said this was prophesied. 

But nothing about this _feels_ righteous. Going off on other Mages—knocking them unconscious with my nuclear magic—feels like a betrayal. Standing here in the wreckage of Watford, exhausted and guilty, I feel more like a traitor than a savior. 

At least only soulmates can kill each other. It’s my one consolation, my one justification: no one will die today. 

Still, I don’t think I can stomach going off on anyone else again. Especially when I haven't even accomplished my main goal. 

To find Baz. 

Baz, who I know must be here. Baz, who never came back for eighth year. Baz, who I’ve been gearing up to fight since I was eleven. Baz, who closed the windows in our room when it was burning hot and took up all the warm water in the shower and set my nightstand on fire the first time I accused him of being a vampire.

Baz, who I have to make sure doesn’t turn anyone. 

I’ve warned the Mage about this. Baz might not be able to kill anyone here, but he can turn them. The Mage brushed it off, telling me to focus on going off near the older Old Family members: the ones with more influence, the ones we can take as political prisoners.

I don’t care about them. I care about Baz. 

Finally, _finally,_ several hours into the battle, I spot him on the outskirts of the Wavering Wood. I'm not supposed to leave my post, but when I catch a glimpse of his trademark sneer out of the corner of my eye, I go sprinting after him without a second thought. Of course, I do this with all the subtlety of a cerberus on fire, but I still manage to get within twenty feet of him before his head whips towards me. 

Grey eyes meet mine. 

It feels as if there's no one else in the world but me and Baz. 

He turns on his heel and runs into the Wavering Wood. I growl in frustration, picking up my pace to catch up with him. I know I can’t outrun a vampire. (I know I can't outrun _Baz._ I've seen him dominate on the football pitch enough times to know that.) But my feet find themselves trying to accomplish the impossible task anyways. 

Baz is zigzagging around the trees, making random left and right turns with no obvious endgame in mind. (Unless his goal is to make me trip over my feet. In that case, he's pretty successful.) 

I lose sight of him, so I stop for a minute to catch my breath and curse my bad luck. I'm looking around wildly, trying to catch a glimpse of his dark hair or pale skin. 

A lazy drawl from behind makes me jump in alarm. "Looking for someone, Snow?" 

I whip around and see Baz standing with an eyebrow arched, not a hair out of place. (How the bloody hell did he get behind me?) (I know the answer to that. It's the same way he's able to run so damned fast.) 

"Baz," I growl. 

"Cheers," he says, twirling his wand absentmindedly. He looks bored, almost. Like we're not in the middle of a battle—of _the_ battle. "Long time, no see." 

His apathy sends a rush of rage through me. I stomp over to him, grabbing him by the collar of his button up and shoving him against a tree. His head hits the bark with a resounding _thud_ , but he barely flinches. 

"It's over," I snap, my forearm across his neck. We're just inches apart, so close that I can feel the rise and fall of his chest against me.

"Is it?" He cocks his head at me. "I think we're just getting started." 

Quickly— _too quickly_ —he shoves me off him, using his superior strength to overpower me. He uses his clever football skills to trip me up, so I lose my balance and tumble backwards. Baz's over me, his wand pointed at my chest, as soon as my back hits the grassy ground. I try to sit up, but he places his boot on my chest, keeping me locked in place. I growl up at him (he always has to be the taller one, doesn't he?) 

"Tut, tut, Snow." He smirks at me, like this is just another game to him. "Shouldn't your Mage have trained you better? Honestly, you've spent eight years on the Mage's _'quests'_ as his personal guard dog, and yet, you're sprawled out on your back within a minute of sparring with me?" 

I'm so enraged that I feel my magic burning at my fingertips. I doubt I'd be able to manage a controlled attack—not with how exhausted I am from battle. 

"Well," I spit out, instead of hexing him. "I hadn't faced any _vampires_ on any of my missions." 

He narrows his eyes at me. "A real pity you can't put that on your CV." 

I grit my teeth and silently curse my own stupidity. I should have summoned my Sword of Mages _before_ I got myself into this position: laid out on my back, at Baz Pitch's mercy. 

I wonder whether he'll be able to off me. Soulmate magic only protects mages from other mages that aren't your soulmate; it doesn't stop dark creatures from murdering you. Penny reckons he's got to be more mage than vampire, but you can never be too sure of anything when it comes to Baz. 

I should have had a plan—some genius way to best Baz, especially given he's got me at a disadvantage—but I ran into this fight without thinking. Now, I'm too angry to come up with a decent strategy. All I have the ability to do is spit out a threat. 

"Lucky for me, I've got the opportunity to kill one right now," I say meaningfully, glaring into his eyes. 

He cocks a single eyebrow at me. "That right, darling?" he says, his tone dripping in sarcasm. "Think I'm the one?" 

The blood in my ears is deafening; for a moment, I can't hear anything over my own anger at his mockery. "I think you can't have a soulmate if you don't have a soul, so you'll be easy enough to set on fire." 

He pushes down harder on my chest with his boot. His mask of careful indifference crumbles for just a moment; but before I can decipher what emotion he's just let slip, he's quickly readjusted his expression back into contempt. Suddenly, the crushing weight on my chest is lifted. 

"Get up, Chosen One," he spits down at me. "We might as well make this a fair fight." 

I scramble to my feet before he can change his mind. " **In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good** ," I cast breathlessly, desperate to get my words out before Baz lunges for my throat. 

The Sword of Mages appears in my hand, the setting sun gleaming off the silver metal, illuminating the weapon like a beacon. Baz stares at me, an odd expression on his face, before he chuckles scathingly. 

"Always the golden boy, huh?" He laughs again, and it's a bitter thing. "Merlin, you look like a bloody storybook hero." 

On its face, the words don't exactly sound like insults. But they must be to Baz—he's never given up the opportunity to go for the lowest blow. "Fuck off, Pitch." 

"And miss out on your sparkling wit?" he jeers. His smile is feral. "Oh, _never._ " 

I attack with a lunge, swinging my sword as if to take Baz's head off. (At least then he'd _shut the hell up._ ) But Baz is too quick for me, easily dodging left to escape my blade. 

"You have to try harder than that if you're going to catch me," he mocks. I growl, and swipe my weapon again, aiming lower, but I miss him by a good metre length.

"Crowley, I thought you'd be more of a challenge, Snow. Put your back into it, why don't you?" 

"Fuck—Baz! This is serious!" My voice is high-pitched and whiny, revealing just how much Baz is winding me up. (He's _always_ riling me up—always getting me to strop and huff and lose my mind over him, while he can't even bother to break a sweat over me.) 

"Then take it seriously," he replies, and his voice is something close to genuine. "Show me how much you hate me, Snow." 

I hate him. 

I hate him so fucking much. 

I hate his posh accent, the way he slicks back his hair, his overwhelming cedar and bergamot scent. I hate the way his thighs move when he's on the pitch, mocking me with his strength and grace. I hate his sharp tongue, the way he uses it to cut me up from the inside out.

Most of all, I hate _this._ The casual way he mocks me, even as we're in the middle of our most dangerous fight yet. That not even the threat of my sword has the power to crack his cool exterior—that nothing, absolutely nothing I ever do, will rattle the great Baz Pitch as much as he rattles me. 

With just that thought in mind—with the singular goal of making Baz Pitch's emotions spill at my feet like a blood sacrifice—I charge. 

I expect him to jump out of the way like he did the other times. To block me somehow, or to curse me with one of the many, many spells he's mastered. 

But he doesn't move a muscle. So when I thrust my sword forward, expecting to slice only open air...

Instead, I find Baz Pitch's heart. 

For a moment that feels like an eternity, the fierce look on his face remains. But then it crumbles just as he does, falling into a grimace of pain. The sword’s still tightly in my grip, my knuckles white with exertion; when he collapses to the ground, the sword slips out of his chest. 

Dark red blood spills from his chest, faster and more violently than I thought would be possible. I've seen dark creatures die—goblins and merwolves and jabberwockies—but never a person. Never a boy. 

I feel like a child playing dress up soldier all of a sudden. Like I was messing around with a loaded gun, never expecting it to go off. Like I've never understood what the real point of this game was—like I never really understood what was at stake. 

I don't understand anything about the horror scene unfolding at my feet. You're not supposed to be able to mortally wound mages! Destiny is supposed to intervene—to make it so that you can't get a kill shot in! You can injure mages, sure. Bruise and batter and break—Baz and I have proven that time and time again. 

But _this._ This isn't a broken nose or bloody knuckles. This is getting swept away by the current and pulled underwater, losing all the oxygen in your lungs. This is looking a wailing banshee in the eye, getting that premonition and knowing, _knowing,_ that the clock's run out. 

This is death. 

This can't be. This shouldn't be! Unless...

"I knew it,” Baz whispers from the ground, sounding vindicated.

I toss the sword away from me like it’s a cursed thing and drop to my knees beside him in single motion. I undo the buttons on his long sleeve with shaking hands to get a better look at his wound—it's gaping and bloody and horrifying to witness. 

"Ba-az!" I choke out, my voice cracking on his name. "What is—how—" 

"Simon," he says. My name on his lips is a shock through my system. A slight smile tugs at the corner of his lips; I can’t imagine why his expression is so peaceful, because there’s _so much blood_. I put pressure on the wound like Penny taught me, but the blood is still gushing between my fingertips. 

"You—you didn't move," I say in explanation. "You didn't even try to use your magic. You didn't _stop me._ Oh Jesus, oh _God,_ Baz."

"You wanna hear a secret?" He slurs his words, his throat slicked with his own blood. "I like it when you swear like a Normal. I mean, I used to think it was bloody ridiculous…. But at some point, I started to really like it." 

He laughs at himself, and it makes his wound splatter blood onto my T-shirt. "Stop!" I shout. "Don't—don't hurt yourself." 

He smirks at me, and I'm already nostalgic for it. 

"That's kind of rich, coming from my killer." 

My mouth goes dry. "I'm not—I'm. _Baz,_ don't say that. Please don't say that." 

" _Ashes, ashes, we all fall down…_ " he sings, just like he did in the Catacombs back in fifth year. I get the same feeling in my gut now as I did then; it feels like my stomach's rioting and raging with an uncontainable, wild emotion. 

"This isn't funny—oh my God." I realise—all of a sudden—that I'm crying. I don't know when I started; but now that I've noticed, I can't stop the tears from soaking my cheeks. "I'm—you—you're right. I'm a murderer. Merlin, _fuck_." 

"It's okay." His expression is so earnest and understanding that it knocks the breath out of my lungs. I don't deserve his sympathy—I don't deserve anything from him. "I’m already dead." 

"No—no! What are you...? No!" 

This can't be my reality. This can't really be happening. 

"Yes, Simon, I am," he says softly. "Can't you see now? You were right. I am a vampire." 

He opens his mouth, revealing his sharp, white canine teeth.

Here's the proof I was looking for that Baz really is a vampire. This was supposed to feel like victory; instead, it feels like a defeat. 

If the price for the truth is Baz's life, I'm not willing to pay it. 

"That's not—that doesn't mean you're _dead!_ "

"Maybe so. But I think this hole in my chest _might_ just mean that." 

"I—oh my god. No, no, no. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Baz, I didn't mean to, I didn't really think I could—I'm so—"

"Shh, shhh," he cooes at me, reaching up to stroke my face and wipe the tears from my cheek. As if to comfort _me,_ of all people. 

It's the first time he's looked troubled today. It's what I wanted when I went to stab him—for his careful composure to break. It's poetic justice that, instead, his vulnerability breaks _me_ ; looking into his grey eyes, my heart shatters, making me feel like glass shards are tearing me apart from the inside out. 

I deserve for this to hurt like hell. 

"It's alright, Simon," Baz says, reading the agony I'm sure is plain on my face. "It was always going to end like this—I knew it all along." 

"Then why didn't you—why didn't you warn me?" I choke out between gulping sobs. 

If I had known what this moment would be like, I'd never have let it come to pass. I'd have done anything to stop it. 

"I… I didn't think you'd care." 

My stomach twists.

I see Baz's insecurity for the first time, and realise he's always only been pretending to be impassive. (Of course he was. Could I ever have sincerely believed this nineteen year old boy was just a villain?) 

I swallow my tears with a heavy gulp so I can force my words out. "Of course I _care_ , you're, you're…"

He's my constant—the one thing that's always on my mind. This whole time, I've just wanted him near. Wanted him close, so I could always know where he was and what he was doing and who he was with. 

I think I've gotten my feelings all wrong. I think….

I’ve really fucked it up.

"Merlin, Baz," I sob. "You're my soulmate!"

"You're mine…" he says on an exhale. He looks wistful about it—as if this fact isn't literally about to be his cause of death. "But I always assumed it was unrequited on your end." 

"Even if we weren't soulmates, I'd care," I cry. "I care so much, Baz." 

"Darling…" He runs his thumb across my lips. It smears blood onto my lip, but I don't care about that. (I care that Baz Pitch just called me _darling_.) (I care that I'm the one who spilled his blood.) "I'm sorry it had to be this way, but I didn't regret a moment of it, Simon. I'm glad I got to see you, one last time." 

"Stop," I growl, all my anger rising up inside me and spilling out my mouth. "Stop talking about us in the past tense _right now,_ Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch." 

He doesn’t listen to me—he never does. (Stubborn bastard.) He carries on.

"I don't mind that this is the end. For you, I'd die a thousand times," he says, his voice shaky and strained, but still so heartfelt. "Knowing you... loving you… it was worth it to me."

Love.

Baz Pitch _loves_ me. 

This would be a triumphant moment if I hadn't damned him. 

"Stop saying things like that—stop saying _goodbye!_ You can't just leave me!" I sound like a sullen child. I don't care. "Please, please, Baz, don't leave me." 

He's straining to keep his eyes open now. They're blood-shot and starting to go glassy, and there are two twin tears caught in the corners of his eye ducts. His breathing's starting to slow; every one of his movements are growing sluggish and labored. 

This is the end. 

This can't be the end.

I'm just now realising—I never imagined my life without Baz. I waited all of eighth year on bated breath for him to come home to me. I searched and pined, comforted only by the knowledge that I'd see him eventually. 

Sure, I knew it would be a battlefield. Sure, we'd be enemies. But when I felt myself go mad with yearning, when it was late at night and I couldn't sleep for fear of nightmares, whenever I'd let my mind drift off, I closed my eyes, and all I could see is one thing. 

Black hair. 

Grey eyes. 

That god-awful, infuriating, fucking gorgeous smirk. 

I can't lose Baz. Giving him up—it'd be death by a thousand cuts. Every day without him would feel colder and darker until the world went black. 

This fight isn't about the World of Mages anymore—everyone else can burn for all I care. 

No. This is about me and Baz. 

“Simon…” Baz whispers, his grey eyes wide and longing.

Without a second's thought, I lunge at him, catching his lips with mine. 

I try to let this kiss say all the words I can't get out—all the things that I won't have the privilege of time to say out loud. 

_I'm not ready for our story to end._

_You can take the air from my lungs._

_You can take my still beating heart from my chest._

_You can have all of me._

_I'm yours._

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

_Baz Pitch, you are magic._

Baz gasps underneath me, breaking our kiss. I jerk away, terrified I'm about to witness his last breath. I open my eyes to see he's… he's… 

He's glowing. 

A bright orb of light illuminates from his chest, washing his skin in shades of bright gold. It takes me a moment to understand what I'm seeing: the undoing of my destruction. 

It's my magic—overflowing from my veins. Usually, when I'm this riled up, I go off. But that's not what's happening here. My magic doesn't feel destructive; it feels invigorating. 

My magic—which has decimated and obliterated and ruined time and time again—is healing Baz. 

I hold my breath as Baz's skin patches itself back together. As his wound becomes smaller and smaller, until the light disappears inside his chest and the formerly fatal cut is just a scar on his smooth chest.

I look down at Baz in awe. Beautiful, wonderful, whole, _alive_ Baz. 

Baz with my magic in his body. 

"Impossible," I whisper, despite the proof laid out before me—it’s just too good to be true. 

Baz looks down at himself. He seems just as amazed as me for a moment, before his lips quirk up into my new favourite expression: a wide, open smile. 

He looks back up at me, and his eyes are glowing with an unconditional adoration that sets my heart on fire.

"I was right.” Baz laughs. "You really are a storybook hero." 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this made you feel things ~ I’ll be heading back to oblivion now! 
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com) if you wanna


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